Endymion
by Tyrann
Summary: Reality becomes a whole different definition for Chris as he slips in and out of it constantly. The cause is unknown, but he's sure that somehow, Wesker is at the bottom of it. Eventual Wesker x Chris Summary sucks, please just read. XD
1. Homecoming

Whoo-hoo! Guy-on-Guy SEX!!!! If I have to, I'll spell it out for ya too! G-U-Y S-E-X!!!! If that ain't enough of a warning for the haters, well, I can say I tried. (shrug) Love GigaCat, and other authors, but I'm too much of a bum to review. Call this my attempt at trying to write something nice back for them. Love ya peeps!

Agh, Disclaimers…Meh: I do not own Resident Evil, nor Biohazard, in any way, shape or form. Any manifestation of the game and its titles are too grand for a poor bum like me to possess….yada-yada ya…. The characters, likewise, are copyright to the Capcom ppls and so on so forth…. PLUS, I do not own Africa. Nice enough place, but definitely would have to be somewhere up there in money, like maybe a millionaire or most definitely a god. Which I am….neither… So self-loathing (jk) added on to my list of how I feel today, let us begin the story!!! XD

)~0~( Homecoming )~0~(

Written by Tyrann

The sound of crashing wave after wave was deafening to his ears. The low hiss of receding water as it coiled, serpentine, back into a gathered mass to strike at the cool sand that he lay on. Each bite brought stinging cold into his arms as it soothed the heat that plagued him, but quickly turned into a fierce mauling of pain as the salt irritated the open wounds of his body.

Had he been able to cry out, he would have long ago as the realization that he still lived thrilled him to his inner core. But this agony coupled with the humiliation suffered in that molten pit drove a maddening stake of rage into the deepest recesses of his pride. He was tired, painfully so, but this beach was not the place to rest, and his fury would not have let him if he could. His voice was gone for the moment, but it would have done him no good without his cell phone. He would help himself from this shoreline, and he would seek out the one who had defied his godly reign.

Blood streaked from his lips as he smirked delightedly, a near-laugh escaping his mouth even as his throat tore again and choked him. Forget the anguish his legs experienced as bone set to mend itself; as tissue and flesh started to repair its framework across the exposed plane. He too, was a snake, he thought as he watched the ocean ready for another hit. Though injured, he would coil, and when the time came, he would slip his fangs into the supple neck of his victim with the intensity of a thousand crashing waves.

Blood-red eyes encircled with gold sparked with fire as they remembered with clarity the face that had near-destroyed him; tried to eradicate everything he had strived for. A cold laugh managed to work its way from his damaged throat, too well aware of the advantage he had over his nemesis. The wave finally descended, drenching the hapless man in all of his nakedness. His legs, not quite healed, stung once more from the salt, but the sting only made this man more determined to finish what was not yet over.

The moon shone brightly overhead, and it was with his will alone that the man crawled to safety from the ocean's grasp. Gold hair stuck damply to his head, loose strands hanging into his snake eyes as his pale skin shook from the cool air. A glance to his legs confirmed they were almost healed, and he grudgingly tried to stand. A sharp needle of pain fired through the balls of his feet to his nether region, eliciting an enraged moan of frustration. Patience, he told himself, there is all the time in the world to recover and avenge my work.

He tried again moments later, when the moon began its descent into the watery grave of the horizon. At the first traces of dawn, when pink skittered across the expanse of orchid sky, he finally stood, basking in the glory of the sun's first light. Here, in this moment of the fierce glow of morning, was he a phoenix born to rise again. How funny that once a former comrade had said the same as Umbrella, yet that company had neither the strength nor backing that he possessed now. Chris would pay, he reminded himself warmly as he began stumbling into a dense grove of banyan trees.

A port town welcomed his weary eyes as trees gave way to reveal a path to it. His legs protested, wanting a moment to adjust, but he pressed on. He knew by the familiarity of the clearing that he was still in Kijuju, and that would work to his advantage. Excella may be dead, but he knew Ada was still nearby. The poor dear hadn't seen much action, but she was ready on standby with a helicopter that would carry his injured body to a safe-house he had prepared in the event of his defeat. Ada had always been in the shadows, lending her aid, but Wesker knew all the same that she would doubtlessly seek a way to finish him off while in the helicopter. So he would wait, in his coiled state, until strength had returned fully to his body. No one would be in this deserted town, and the stores of food set aside for upcoming festivals would provide his nourishment.

Albert grinned, the whites of his teeth stained dark by his blood, with the knowledge that not even the BSAA would be looking for him. They thought him dead; killed by the volcano. Yet Wesker had even Chris to thank for that. That final attempt to kill him with those rocket launchers -- who would have thought that those would be the instruments to his survival? The propulsive force created by the shockwaves had been enough to carry him from the lava's depths and into the ocean. Yes, he had lost his legs, but now Albert had recovered them and was ready to plague the world with his second coming.

It was with great humor that Wesker then compared himself to Jesus Christ, having risen from the dead once more to return to his earthly home. And Chris would be the second to witness his homecoming. Chris, and the little present Wesker had given him while he had grasped the man during his escape onto the helicopter. None the wiser, Chris would undoubtedly assume that he had gotten scraped during the fight, when in actuality, he would soon become Wesker's most trusted companion.

To be continued…

-Hey, it's me! Yay, Tyrann is back!!! I felt bad, because I freaking love Resident Evil (you know playing all the games and getting the posters – all that jazz) but I'd never really written much for the category! XD So, here's my attempt at a multi-chapter story for my favorite game. Don't flame me, it's not nice, and nowhere is it written in the prophecy underneath the clause where everyone shall have fries.

There will be eventual Chris x Wesker, and other surprises, but don't haggle me about writing too much. I regret to say that I live in a very, very broke family, where internet access is like a treat I get once a month. Most of the time, I have to sneak getting on, and even then, our connection sucks and strives to spite me. So be patient, and I'll give you cookies. Much love!!!


	2. Festering Ghosts

)~0~( Festering Ghosts )~0~(

Written by Tyrann

He first dreamt of darkness. Swirling; twining; climbing in snake-like fashion around his right leg. His throat itched to scream as searing heat penetrated his skin, turning icy and filling his veins while the skin twitched and protested against the intrusion. In his mind's eye, he could see the spider web patchwork of infection spreading throughout his body; tightening its icy coils about his semitendinosus and traveling along its diagonal planes of muscle to climb to others. Each in turn disintegrated black until they were ashes before his eyes and he could smell the sulfur and basalt in the air.

Suddenly everything was amber hued and he could feel the earth vibrating beneath him. The air was hot and sticky, and he could feel the ash clinging to his damp skin. But as he tried to wipe the grime from his trembling arm, he unintentionally pulled the meat from his bones and he let loose a wail. The exposed, raw epethials of his remaining flesh burned hotter than the air around him, yet he could feel the iciness spread thicker into his veins, climbing higher and higher. His voice was tearing his throat, and he clutched his arm to his chest, sobbing. His eyes burned, the ice peaking behind the orbital muscles, and he could feel the irises turning red with infection. And he could only scream, "NO! NO! Wesker, NO! HELP ME… JILL! SHEVA!"

Chris sat up, eyes dilated by fear and his chest heaved as if he had just finished running a marathon. Sweat drenched his body, and his skin felt clammy even though he knew the thermostat in the hall read 72 F. Chris' abdominal muscles began to twitch, and he knew to stand and run to the bathroom before he threw up on his bed covers. The toilet seat was raised, Chris having learned his lesson after three weeks of repeating occurence. Even the rounded floor rug Claire had given him had been tossed into the closet after it had tripped him up one mad run to the porcelain bowl.

Body still slick with sweat, Chris' right foot slid on the tiled floor as he dropped to his knees, torso bent over the toilet. The slight sting on his knee confirmed it had been skinned, but the thought left Chris' head as soon as his chest felt the burn of bile and he began heaving. Though nothing came out but dry pants and sickening hurling noises, Chris felt like something was being expelled from his body and he poised limply over the bowl. After minutes of having his trembling arms support his frame against the toilet seat, he finally stood and moved over to the sink to brush his teeth.

Chris swore he could taste ash in his mouth. It brought back a sudden lurch of darkness and humidity, but Chris couldn't recall the rest of the dream and tried to dismiss the unexplainable vertigo he suddenly felt. Hands still shaking, Chris brought the toothbrush to his mouth and looked up as he brushed. He caught a glimpse of his tired face in the dark mirror, and noticed with guilt that he looked as bad as he felt. There was no way he could meet up with Jill now; she had her own nightmares to face and it always pained him how concerned she was for him. Even Claire didn't need to be burdened by his sleeplessness and constant nightmares. He had gone to a therapist just for them, but had to quit after the diagnosis.

'_You are pained by guilt and longing. The volcano and ashes in your dream… maybe they represent an unfulfilled desire? Did someone close to you die? Maybe you dreamt of having a life with them."_

Chris remembered he had stood in the office and began shouting loudly. If Claire hadn't come in, he may have even hit the doctor. His mind screamed that the doctor was twisting the events that happened in Kijuju, but Chris had felt a heaviness when that doctor asked him that. Something in his heart couldn't stand to admit a painful truth to himself.

The 35-year old shook his head and chastised himself for his temper. Surely the doctor wasn't to blame? She had only done her job… but she was wrong.

Yet Chris still felt compelled to go to his closet, pushed aside the clothes and reached for the old, beaten box he knew was there. His knees chose to bend and fold, forcing his body into a seated position on the closet floor. Tanned, strong hands hesitantly pulled the shoe box's lid from the top and he paused at the sight of all the pictures, files, and small mementos that littered the inside. One picture, he knew, lay tucked underneath everything else and was slightly pushed up into the right-hand corner. Already, the scrawled date that was written in perfect script could be seen his mind. Elegant strokes and crossed t's written in black ink because red was too blaring and green was too unprofessional. The date of February 16th, 1998 - their late Valentine's Day so it wasn't so suspicious. Chris felt his hand reach underneath the piles and go for the right-hand corner. His fingertips brushed the curled edge of a photograph and he went to pull it out…

Distinctly, Chris could hear his phone – set to vibrate – rattling on his dresser. He drew his hand back sharply, as if burned, and he shook his head tiredly before throwing the box back on its shelf. Chris stood slowly, and without bothering to replace the lid, strode from the closet to his dresser where his phone balanced precariously on the edge. Lazily, he used one finger to press the menu button, selecting inbox.

GET OVER TO HEADQUARTERS. BRIEFING AT 7:25 – DON'T BE LATE AGAIN.

Chris exhaled, noting with nonchalance that his date with Jill and Claire was going to have to be rescheduled. It was really too bad, but they wouldn't be having that lunch today. Perhaps for the best, since Chris' eyes were lined with dark circles. On the plus side, he didn't have to worry about having enough time to get ready. The clock's neon green display clearly read four a.m. A nice long shower would be just the thing to get him going, and Chris sent an apologetic text to Claire before gathering his uniform together. He also sent a text to Jill, offering to pick her up and getting coffee on the way. He knew full well she would realize the text wasn't what had woken him, but wouldn't push the matter for long either.

At six, Chris could hear rain begin to fall. The windows were open, and Chris could smell the outside air as he organized his attaché case. He decided to leave early, hoping to catch some of the drizzle. His skin was too hot now, and he didn't mind the rain. Jill would understand, though she would give him a small frown.

Mist had already seeped its way throughout the city, and Chris felt his heart quicken, a memory trying to fight its way to the front of his mind. Jill would understand that too. She always understood him, yet he couldn't find a reason to explain why he couldn't see her as more than his friend. And there she was, standing in the rain. Her wispy, sand-colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail, slowly regaining its original color. Her deep blue eyes looked as tired as his, and he already knew when she turned her gaze to meet his that things hadn't changed. Jill was his friend; his partner; his everything. She just wasn't the person he loved.

Chris opened his beat up door to her, a small smile on his face. "Late night?" He asked gently as she lifted herself into his truck.

Jill blew a loose piece of hair from her eyes and gave an equally gentle smile. "No later than yours."

Chris could only nod to that, and he turned the music to a comfortable level as they drove in companionable silence. Jill only hummed, her head heavy against the window as raindrops collected and slid down the glass.

A/N: Wow, I'm almost scared of how you all will react to this. Nope, I ain't dead yet. XD I just couldn't find it in me to write anything. Then out of the blue today, I just felt the need to. I hope it's good and that you all enjoy it. I will try to finish this story, wherever it ends.


End file.
